


something my soul needs(is you, lying next to me)

by 9crimes



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Oral, PWP, Post 2x08, canon compliant up to 2x08 only
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:28:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3634926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9crimes/pseuds/9crimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the first time he kisses her she's crying</p>
            </blockquote>





	something my soul needs(is you, lying next to me)

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this right after 2x08 when the angstiest thing about bellarke was the fact that Clarke had just killed her love interest!! Those were the days...anyway I decided to go ahead and finish/post this because I'm working on a much longer fic that's kicking my ass and actually finishing something makes me happy. 
> 
> This is only canon compliant up to 2x08, and takes place a few months after those events.

The first time he kisses her she’s crying.   

She’s crying, sobbing so hard she’s hyperventilating, dry heaving, not breathing.

It starts out not so much a kiss as it is desperation to get air into her lungs. She’s caught by surprise and for what seems like minutes but is probably only seconds, she’s paralyzed and he’s breathing into her.

 

But then, then her small fists are threading through his hair and her tongue is in his mouth and they’re against a tree.  His hands cup her face, and he memorizes the way her skin feels, the way her jaw works against his palm as she opens further for him.

As soon as it happened it’s over. She tears her lips away from his, stares into his eyes while her hands drift from his hair, to his cheeks, over his jaw, down his chest, and then she’s gone.

He watches her walk away, watches her wipe her mouth with the back of her hand as she stumbles through the woods.

His hands are still in the air, where they had held her face not 30 seconds ago.

**  
**  


* * *

**  
**  
  


His tent is dark, only 1 candle burning, and he’s trying to read from one of the volumes of Ancient History they’d found in an abandoned library a few weeks ago.

‘You shouldn’t be reading in this light, you’re straining your eyes’. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t look away from his book. She rarely speaks when she comes to him at night, content to sit cross legged at the foot of his bed and just be. Sometimes she brings a sketchbook.

She needs the stillness, and he’s happy to let her have it.

‘What are you reading anyway?’ This time he looks up, she must be in the mood for a conversation, he thinks. He follows her lead these days.

‘Cambridge Ancient History Volume 11, ‘s what it’s called. This one’s about the High Empire, AD 70-192’. He glances up and sees she’s scooted closer to where he’s sitting, close enough that her knee is touching his thigh. It's casual, but since he now knows what it feels like to have his knee  _between_ her thighs, well, it's not as casual as it could be.

‘Why do you read this stuff anyway? How do you know it’s even true’ she asks as she touches the yellowed pages. She’s a scientist, a doctor, she’d told him once. She deals in absolutes. She doesn’t have time for things that may or may not be true these days. They’ve had this discussion before.

‘It’s someone’s truth. Even if it’s not all true, beats doing equations or whatever the shit it is you do all day’ the darkness hides his smile and he thumps her finger off the pages.

‘It’s called math you idiot’ she thumps his thigh. ‘And that has nothing to do with what I do all day. Not really’.

‘I know’ he says simply, and puts his hand on hers, resting on his thigh still.

She’s curled up to his side by now and they sit silently for a bit. He goes back to his book and she watches him, tracing his features with her eyes, noticing the lines in his forehead as he concentrates on the small words on the page.

Suddenly she hates the silence.

‘Read to me’ she says it on a whisper but he can hear her even when she says nothing.

So he reads a few paragraphs about Trajan’s thirtieth legion, pausing every other sentence to slide his eyes to her, try to read her as he’s reading this history volume.

When he goes to turn the page, her hand on his stops him. She closes the book and it falls to the side, forgotten, as she moves her hand up his arm and over the stubble on his face, tangling in his hair.

She slides one knee over his torso until she’s straddling him, her hands still threading through his hair and her lips as close to his as they can get without touching.

He wants to touch her. He knows this is not about what he wants.

When her lips touch his he doesn’t move, lying still on his back, waiting for her to give some indication of what he’s supposed to do here. Looking to you, princess echoes in some distant part of his brain and he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to be thinking something along the lines of _how did I end up here_ or _how far have the mighty fallen_ but mostly all he’s thinking is _thank god i’m here, thank god i’m not him anymore, thank god thank god._

With one roll of her hips she has his attention back 100% and he thinks that’s a pretty good sign of what she wants, so he lets his hands move up the backs of her thighs. He hesitates before he gets to her ass and instead lifts his hands to tangle into her curls.

He hesitates again when he feels something wet against his cheek. He pulls his lips from hers and brushes her wild curls out of her face. They’re still breathing each other’s air, her hands are grasping at his hair, trying to pull him closer, keep him closer, whichever. ‘Keep going, _come on_ -’

‘Hey. You’re crying’ he whispers ‘You’re crying’. She stiffens then and lifts a hand to her face, feeling the tear tracks on her cheeks. She wipes them away and the look on her face is pure steel. ‘I don’t want to cry anymore. I’m so sick of...I want it to stop. I’ve tried, I’ve tried everything. Bellamy...’

He understands what she’s asking of him (she doesn’t though, not really, and he’s glad of that, he really is).

He pulls her down onto his chest, wrapping his arms around her. He holds her, just for a few seconds, before...whatever it is this turns into. Savors these last moments of their relationship as it is now. He knows things will be different after this. They are not the kind of people who can touch each other meaninglessly. It always means something, will always mean something. He thinks about stopping her. It’s probably the right thing to do. She’s wrecked, far from herself. Emotionally spent. He knows that otherwise they’d most likely never be here, she’d never come to him. Another man’s ghost brought her to him, he knows that. But she came to _him_. She came to him because she doesn’t want to cry, she doesn’t want to live with a ghost. He doesn’t do many things well, but this? This he can do. He can make her forget, even if for only a few minutes. If he can make things just ok, not even good necessarily, just ok, for just a little while he thinks it’ll be worth it.

When he feels her body shift and her lips press tentatively against his neck, his collarbone, his chest, he rolls them over, gently, so she’s lying on her back with all her messy dirty (beautiful) curls spread out on his pillow and framing her face like a halo. He braces himself above her on one forearm and lets his hips lower into the cradle of hers. He clenches his jaw as her legs spread open for him, as if this is the most natural thing in the world, as if he belongs here. As if this is much more than what he knows it is.

When he kisses her it’s slow and soft, his lips telling her without words that he’ll do anything, all she has to do is ask and he’s there.

‘Anything makes you uncomfortable, you tell me, yea?’ He whispers heavily into her neck in between open mouthed kisses.

She nods and moves her hands over his biceps and shoulders, hesitantly but with an intention that heats his skin. He’s still wearing his shirt but her touch scorches through, a slow and methodical burning that he knows is only going to get worse over time. Her hands tangle in his hair as he moves his mouth to the hollow of her neck and further down her chest. When he gets to the neckline of her shirt he pauses, looks up at her from under his eyelashes. She gives him a small smile and sits up, gently pushing on his chest, moving to her knees in front of him. He mirrors her, moving to his knees as well.

Her fingers play with the hem of her shirt and she bites her lip.

‘I haven’t done this since...’ _with Finn_ hangs unspoken in the air between them. Bellamy is quick to fill the silence, reaching out a hand to still her fingers. He bunches the fabric of her shirt in his fist and pulls her closer into him.

‘Don’t worry about that. You trust me?’ she lets out a breath and nods, and he lets go of her shirt and moves his hand underneath, squeezing reflexively at the sensation of the intimate skin-on-skin contact. She’s soft, but he knows she’s made of steel and that makes her softness all the more alluring. _Athena_ he thinks. _Goddess of courage and war and strategy_. He remembers the council meeting they’d been in for hours earlier that day, remembers her shooting out of her chair and arguing passionately with Kane when he’d been presenting one of his god awful ideas, remembers the heat in her eyes and the quiet strength in her voice. He remembers the many times that steel and passion had been directed at him, the times they’d argued. The times she’d ended up being right, and the handful of times he’d been right.

She’s a warrior, but tonight they’re not fighting a war.

He pushes her shirt up her body until his hands are resting on either side of her ribcage, her shirt pulled up right underneath her breasts. He tries to tamper down the jolt of lust that shoots straight to his dick, but then she takes matters into her own hands and pulls her shirt over her head, and he’s just...done. Her breasts are spilling over the cups of her bra, which is clearly a size or 2 too small. They all have to make do with what they have, but he can’t say he’s too upset about this particular hardship. Next she hooks her fingers into the fraying straps of her bra, inching them down her arms slowly then pulling the cups down until they’re resting underneath her breasts. Her small hands wrap around his large ones and guide them to her chest.

‘Touch me’ she says lowly, ‘I want you to’ and that is all the encouragement Bellamy needs. Her breasts are heavy in his hands and he licks his lips as he pinches one of her nipples experimentally, drawing a gasp and then a soft moan from Clarke. He lowers his head to take the other nipple into his mouth, keeping his eyes on her the whole time, completely focused on her every reaction and movement. Her breathing speeds up when he licks a circle around the dark skin surrounding her nipple, then hitches when his tongue flattens over it. He goes on like that for a few minutes, worshipping her breasts the way he used to let himself fantasize about, when he wasn’t spending his nights trying to avoid imminent death and war.

When her moans die down and he can tell from the way her hips are shifting that she needs more, he kisses his way down her stomach til he reaches the edge of her pants. He pulls her to the edge of his bed and sinks to his knees in front of her, pulling down her pants but leaving her underwear on. She looks unsure at first, confused as to what he’s planning. But then his hands press her knees apart and his lips move from the edge of her underwear to the hollow of her hipbone, and she picks up on it.

‘Bellamy, yes... _please_ ’ she lets out on a breathy moan, arching her back in a way that pushes her hips closer to his mouth. He licks a line over her underwear, drawing another moan and another ‘please’ from Clarke.

‘I’m gonna take care of you, baby, I’m gonna take such good care of you, just be patient’ he’s mumbling as he peppers kisses over her mound and she nods desperately, pressing her head into the pillow behind her and struggling to decide what to do with her hands, clenching and unclenching the thin sheets on his bed. When he grabs them and places them on his own head she laughs harshly, which turns into a strangled sob when he moves her underwear aside, finally, and drives his tongue into her.

Clarke digs her fingers into his curls and pulls, locks her legs around his neck, and he thinks he’s been wrong all these years, heaven does exist and this is it.

Bellamy doesn’t take his eyes off her as he fucks her with his tongue, studies her face to see her reactions. When her breathing gets heavier and her eyes squeeze shut as her entire body tenses up he settles into a rhythm, stays in that spot that seems to draw the most desperate reaction out of her.

It’s been a few months since he’s fucked, but it turns out this is still his favorite part, when everything else falls away and his whole world revolves around waiting for that moment the beautiful woman in front of him falls apart in the most intimate of ways. The fact that it’s Clarke in front of him, this girl who fights so passionately( alongside him, for him, against him), this girl who saved him and now looks at him like he might be able to save her...somehow makes everything even more intense.

He’s overwhelmed by a desire to see her come, to feel her come, so he brings the hand that’s currently anchoring her hips to the bed down to her clit and rubs small furious circles with his thumb. She’s on the edge within seconds, he can tell by the way her fingers clench in his hair and the way she bites her lip as she arches her back and her breasts heave with the quickening of her breathing. He’s pretty sure his tongue is going to cramp up soon but he doesn’t give a fuck, just keeps licking into her relentlessly until finally he feels her muscles clench on his tongue, her legs shake on his shoulders. His eyes are still held fast on hers, memorizing the way she looks in this moment.

_Aphrodite_ , he thinks, _goddess of pleasure and beauty_. She is a living, breathing goddess, with her golden curls sticking to her shoulders and a sheen of sweat glowing in the candlelight on her face, her breasts, her stomach. There’s even a small satisfied smile gracing her lips, and he’s filled with a sort of relief. Relief that it worked, that he was able to give her even a small bit of alleviation from the pain and heaviness that she has known for so long.

When she opens her eyes after she’s come down from her high, he feels himself panic. He doesn’t want reality to set back in for them quite yet, doesn’t want her to lose that smile. But then she’s laughing, laughing, and he can’t help the grind that spreads across his face.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing, nothing, it’s just...you’re completely dressed still and I’m…’ she flicks a hand down her very naked, very beautiful body and giggles again.

‘Yea I...don’t really see the problem, honestly’ He says lowly as he lets his eyes wander down her body again.

‘Ha ha, very funny’ Clarke rolls her eyes, then pulls him up to the bed and rises onto her knees. She lifts his worn t-shirt off his head and pulls it over her own.

‘There. Now we’re even.’ She declares, and he would mourn the fact that shes covered her body, but then he’s pretty into the way she looks in his shirt, the way it swallows her and the way it’s falling over her shoulder. He’s also pretty ok with the way she’s biting her lip as she lets her eyes linger on his bare chest.

She’s still smiling when she grabs his hand and pulls him to lie down next to her, until his hard-on presses against her thigh. ‘Oh’ she whispers, and he hurries to put distance between his hips and her body.

‘Shit, uh, sorry about that’ he mumbles, cursing himself for ruining the moment.

‘No, it’s ok’ she says hurriedly ‘it’s just...well we’re not exactly _even_ after all, I guess’ Her hand is snaking down his chest towards his groin and he quickly grabs it and pulls it up to his lips.

‘ _Clarke,_ that’s not what this is about. You don’t owe me anything. This was about _you_. You feel...better, even just a little bit, right?’ She nods.

‘Good’ he says emphatically ‘That’s all I wanted’. She looks unsure, but he can sense that she’s not ready for more. He doesn’t want to push her, doesn’t want to turn something that has so far seemed to only draw them closer, into something that could push them apart. When she nods her head in acceptance he breathes a sigh of relief and pulls her into his arms.

He asks her to stay the night, and the smile returns to her face.

Whatever happens in the morning, he thinks the memory of her smile, of the way she feels in his arms, of the whispered ‘thank you’ against his chest, will make it all worth it.

 


End file.
